


Frost Fire

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan has been taught that werewolves are abominations. But a man, Nicholas, who once lived among wolves, comes seeking peace at Lindisfarne, telling Athelstan stories of his pack.  When a group of Norse Vikings, most of whom are werewolves, raid the monastery, Nicholas asks to go with them. Athelstan is forced to join him and finds himself a human beta, pulled towards alpha Ragnar and his equally alpha mate Lagertha. Nicholas insists that Athelstan belongs right there, and while Athelstan despairs of both his own thoughts and a lot of what he witnesses, he finds himself inextricably attracted to the Lothbrooks. Was this God’s plan all along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stranger Things

 

 

Nicholas came to Lindisfarne when Athelstan had lived for over eighteen winters in God’s glorious presence. The monastery was Athelstan’s entire world and he regularly dedicated himself to reading and writing, to glorifying the Lord's name. His fellow monks were truly his brothers and he was grateful for their guidance and discipline.

 

Nicholas was different. He strode in wearing muddied breeches and a shirt laced only loosely at the neck. There was a sword on his belt and his hair reached past his shoulders. There was something hard and pained in his eyes that made Athelstan automatically step forward, because he had been taught to help and offer comfort as the Lord did. He caught Nicholas's attention. The stranger’s smile was surprisingly soft as Father Cuthbert arrived.

 

“Apologies for causing any alarm,” Nicholas said, his voice warm and rough with pain. “But I seek a peaceful dwelling. I have lost those closest to me and need time away from the world.”

 

Father Cuthbert looked at him carefully. “You would join our ranks?”

 

Nicholas laughed, though not unkindly. “I'm not suited to a pious life, Father, but I can work your gardens and find my solace there.”

 

“God heals all ills.”

 

“Not mine.”

 

Athelstan's eyes widened, how could Nicholas say and believe such things? And sound so unafraid uttering such blasphemous words?

 

“He is not my god.”

 

Father Cuthbert looked at Nicholas, perhaps seeing something that Athelstan did not. “Where was your heart broken?”

 

Nicholas looked at the friar with respect and inclined his head. “Far from this place. I lived with a pack who now live no more. I cannot be there without them.”

 

There were gasps and mutterings from some of the listening monks. Athelstan's heart beat fast, he knew what Nicholas was saying but could not believe it – this stranger not only spoke against God but had lived amongst werewolves? Ungodly monsters who sought to spread disease and cause bloodshed in the Lord's peaceful lands?

 

Father Cuthbert's expression tightened but he did not order Nicholas from the monastery, not yet. “You are a werewolf?”

 

Nicholas's smile was warm and filled with secrets. Athelstan wondered what they were. “Alas, I am as human as you and your monks. But wolves became my kin, my mate saved my life during the slaughter that took her from me. I do not seek to claim any here for my faith.”

 

“You will not speak of your gods or wolves?”

 

Nicholas looked considering. “I will not attempt to shake any from their convictions, if you offer me the same courtesy.”

 

The mutterings grew louder but Father Cuthbert nodded. “You will be given a room, you must leave your sword there and keep to the gardens or kitchen unless at your bed. You are welcome at prayers.”

 

Nicholas bowed neatly from the waist. “You are generous, Father.”

 

Athelstan watched as several of his brothers left with Father Cuthbert, apparently disagreeing with his decision. Nicholas lingered, his sad eyes wandering about the hall. Athelstan's heart hammered hard and he hurried away before Nicholas's gaze could touch him.

 

Athelstan did not sleep well that night, he dreamt of sharp teeth, blood spilling, and howls that made his heart hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered prayers feverishly until morning's light.

 

*

 

Athestan avoided speaking to Nicholas for many weeks and months. The man appeared to seek solitude anyway and did not approach anyone unless they came to him first. He did spend time with Father Cuthbert though, the two of them often spoke alone and neither appeared angry after such meetings.

 

Athelstan had not been banned from talking to Nicholas; Father Cuthbert had merely told him that Nicholas was not a man of God.

 

“Show him God's kindness and compassion,” Father Cuthbert added. “He is in great need of it.”

 

Some of the monks frowned at Nicholas and claimed that he should be forced to leave the monastery. They told stories of the werewolves and packs that they had encountered before becoming monks, stories of blood and fear and pain. Athelstan listened to them all, his mind filling with terrible images. How could God create such creatures?

 

Brother Bartholomew scowled at such a view. “They are a perversion of God's image, a sign of the great sins they have committed. Their punishment is to be hungry but never fulfilled. We are always their prey.”

 

It was the prevailing perspective and Athelstan took it heart, averting his eyes whenever Nicholas strode through the halls. He never fasted or prayed; he never studied the Bible or sought punishment for his sins. He never seemed sorry for who he'd been.

 

He did seem sad though, on a bone-deep level that made Athelstan shiver. How could anybody be so devastated? Nicholas never seemed to wallow in such feeling, he worked hard in the monastery gardens and was rarely idle, but his sadness was always thick around him. He wore it like a shroud, too vivid to be a lie used to lull the monks into false security before attacking them like his wolf-kin.

 

Athelstan still stayed away from him, hardly daring to breathe the same air. Nicholas needed God, but he would not turn to Him. Why would anyone choose such cold loneliness? Surely Nicholas could see how his own heathen gods had failed him? He was without spiritual comfort and aid; he had no family or friends to speak of. Why would he not seek out the Lord who gave the monastery its peace?

 

Athelstan did not dare to ask.

 

Then one day, he sought a drink of water and discovered Nicholas there already, standing close to the well. Athelstan's heart thumped hard, his stomach lurching. He would have hurried away, as he had done many times before, but then Nicholas caught sight of him and smiled welcomingly. He did not show his teeth but Athelstan imagined them anyway. Did one who spent time with werewolves, who mated with them, become like them too? Why would anyone choose to become their kin?

 

So Athelstan bobbed a nod towards Nicholas and concentrated on drawing himself a cool mouthful of water. Nicholas did not leave however, instead he looked out at the gardens that he clearly loved so much. Good crops were produced, for the monastery kitchens, to give to those who needed it, and to sell to support the monastery's life. Nicholas had aided in that, even though he did not share the brothers' faith. Some of the monks had believed that Nicholas would have caused them ill with his garden work, that he would have caused them to sicken so that he could have sacked the monastery but when none suffered, such theories were swept away.

 

“You're a very quiet cub.”

 

Athelstan startled, so lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed that Nicholas's gaze had travelled to him. He swallowed and called on God's strength so that he might resist the words of the heathen the Lord had sent to them.

 

Nicholas appeared to expect a response so Athelstan gave him honest words. “I don't know what to say.”

 

Nicholas's smile widened. “You've never stepped beyond these walls, have you?”

 

“I go to the market with our crops, and to help those who suffer,” Athelstan felt compelled to reply, defensive in a way that made his chest clench. “Soon I will travel far to spread the message of our Lord.”

 

“But you have not lived anywhere but here?”

 

“I was left here as a baby.”

 

Nicholas nodded. “A good place to guarantee a child's safety and nourishment.”

 

Athelstan finished his cup full of water but did not leave immediately. Nicholas was not...he was not the monster of Athelstan's fevered dreams. But Athelstan would be careful; he would not be swayed by kind words. The stories his brothers had told still lingered.

 

But Nicholas's sadness and despair lingered also.

 

“Is there anything you would have me bring to the Lord at vespers?” Athelstan asked quietly.

 

Nicholas looked surprised, his gaze raking Athelstan thoroughly. Perhaps he had heard the hard words of the brothers. Athelstan felt suddenly and deeply ashamed.

 

“Only that I would find my way to peace,” Nicholas replied at last.

 

Athelstan nodded, glad that he could do something to ease the heavy shroud that surrounded Nicholas. He turned to go, noticing that Nicholas was watching him, not with a predatory glint but rather with an interest that did not sit entirely well with Athelstan. He hurried away.

 

He remembered to bring Nicholas into his vespers at sundown, asking the Lord for healing and peace for what hurt the man so, he asked for Nicholas to seek the Lord, for Athelstan to know how to bring Nicholas closer to God without breaking the promise that Father Cuthbert had made to the man.

 

Athelstan slept better that night; the monsters circled but did not come close.

 

*

 

The next time that he spoke to Nicholas, Athelstan was in the gardens, tending to some of the tender shoots that would become abundant crops with God's blessing. Nicholas was watering the rows in front of Athelstan, and Athelstan noticed, as Nicholas adjusted his shirt in the heat, that the man’s neck was very clearly marked. In fact...was that a _bite?_

 

Athelstan dropped the basket he was carrying and Nicholas turned at the sound, his eyebrows arched questioningly.

 

“Cub?”

 

Athelstan's hands were shaking as he bent to reclaim his basket. His thoughts raced – hadn't Nicholas sworn that he was not a wolf? How could he retain such a bite then? How many falsehoods had he told?

 

Nicholas slowly came closer; his movement deliberate as though to not startle Athelstan. “What frightened you? Did you hear something?”

 

Athelstan tried not to stare, one of his hands twitching. Nicholas rubbed a hand across his jaw and down, realising that his shirt was no longer covering his mark. His expression darkened and he readjusted his clothing. He seemed to require several moments to compose himself, his sadness now thicker than usual. Athelstan felt rooted to the spot, curiosity and horror building in him. Should he warn Father Cuthbert? Should he...?

 

“Cub, Athelstan,” Nicholas called for his attention. “My bite shook you, you think me an animal?”

 

Athelstan nodded quickly. “The bite brings forth the wolf.”

 

Everybody knew that, it was the truth that Athelstan had been taught at a young age and now there was a wolf here, in Lindisfarne. Nicholas shook his head.

 

“It is true that werewolves are made by a bite from another wolf that breaks the skin,” he said, quiet and firm. “But some are born with the change already in them. Their nature is set by the gods.”

 

Athelstan's eyes widened and he felt quite breathless. Some were born werewolf, not human? “No one tells such a story.”

 

“Wolves do not speak of such things to those outside of pack, and the bite is something outsiders often witness, if a wolf attacks.”

 

That did make sense. Athelstan tucked the knowledge away. “So what is your bite, if it does not mark you as a wolf?”

 

Nicholas's expression darkened again and his fingers touched where the cloth of his shirt covered the mark. He appeared wrecked by memories.

 

“That is not a question to ask a wolf, or any within a pack. Some would kill you for it. A bite is not the business of outsiders.”

 

Athelstan shivered, reminded vividly of the very nature of wolves. He wondered if he should shout and gain attention, but Nicholas was not threatening him. It was more of a warning for Athelstan to heed when outside the monastery's walls.

 

Nicholas continued. “Mine shows I was claimed by a wolf, that I mated with one.”

 

His countenance was unbearably sad once more and Athelstan clenched his fingers around the basket's handle, mentally noting to bring Nicholas’ grief into his prayers most fervently. The man was no wolf, but he was shattered by his time with them, due to mourning and despair. It was a great burden for one man to bear, if only he would lay it onto God...

 

“There's much you and your brothers do not know of wolves,” Nicholas said suddenly into the silence. “This could weigh heavily against you when spreading your god's word.”

 

Another warning and this one made Athelstan’s heart hammer fast. He had heard of encounters with werewolves, how terrifying it could be. It was true that he could meet such creatures whilst talking of God’s love out in the world and he could offend or anger them. But were there ways to prevent such things? Werewolves were thoughtless beasts driven by ravening greed.

 

Nicholas cocked his head. “I will speak to you of the knowledge you lack; I would not see you taken from this world yet.”

 

Athelstan stared at him. “What do you ask in return?”

 

Nicholas’s smile was sad and heavy. “That you listen.”

 

So Athelstan began lessons with Nicholas, they were not frequent, only when both had time and space for such meetings. Nicholas told him stories.

 

“You can believe them or not, but they will save your life should you meet a pack.”

 

Athelstan learned that he should bare his neck to a wolf if he respected them, some wolves would expect deference as a greeting but it was Athelstan’s choice. He learned about alphas – those who were dominant and intense and usually physically stronger – and about betas who submitted to alphas. Alphas were possessive of their betas and marked them for the world to see. They fought over betas and were jealous of any who touched them. Alphas had been slain because of how they had treated a beta.

 

“Jocelyn could smell if an alpha had lightly brushed against my shoulder,” Nicholas remarked. “Scent matters a great deal.”

 

Jocelyn. That had been the name of Nicholas’s mate. She had been an alpha, fierce and proud and had claimed Nicholas after winning a fight for him against several other alphas.

 

“Jocelyn won the right to pursue me. If I had rejected her, others would have wanted to claim me. In other packs, there would have been no choice at all for me. One of the pack’s alphas would have taken me, regardless of my objections. Jocelyn’s pack let me choose my Alpha though they would not have allowed me to leave their land if that had been my wish, I smelled too good to them.”

 

Athelstan filed away every detail, horrifying or not. He flushed at the thought of snarling alphas fighting over someone like a piece of meat, at the idea that Nicholas had been a prisoner and then passed on. Nicholas was not offended by such an idea, listening as Athelstan struggled to verbalise his distress.

 

“Betas are not always plentiful,” he explained. “I was too important to let go.”

 

“You could have been…”

 

“I was happy,” Nicholas interrupted firmly.

 

He talked of Jocelyn, of what he had felt for her from the first moment, of those who still tried to claim him after he and Jocelyn had become mates. Some alphas never gave up pursuing even then, they were truly greedy. Those were the wolves that filled the brothers’ horrifying stories.

 

“We aren’t monsters, Athelstan, but we are monstrous.”

 

Athelstan’s expression twisted at Nicholas’s choice of words. He was human, so why did he include himself among the monstrous? Was that what being part of a pack was like?

 

Father Cuthbert did not seem angry when Athelstan told him about the time he now spent with Nicholas.

 

“He is preparing you for what you may encounter,” Father Cuthbert noted.

 

“God will protect me.”

 

Athelstan's words should not have sounded like a question, but Father Cuthbert did not seem angry or disappointed.

 

“He will, and He will send help.”

 

Athelstan absorbed Father Cuthbert's advice and continued to spend time with Nicholas. The man's sadness lightened sometimes, but it never truly disappeared. Athelstan prayed hard, asking for strength and direction in helping Nicholas. Nicholas himself smiled when he saw Athelstan's concern.

 

“I do not want to lose all of my burden,” he revealed.

 

Athelstan was astonished, his expression uncomprehending, as Nicholas answered the unspoken question.

 

“To be rid of all my pain and sadness, it draws Jocelyn further from me still.”

 

Nicholas often left Athelstan with much to think about. He spent many hours working and praying, turning over the words. Why would Nicholas hold onto that great burden of pain and sadness? God called for everyone to cast their cares onto Him, Athelstan prayed hard that Nicholas would, but he did not say such things aloud. He would not break Father Cuthbert's promise to Nicholas, no matter how much he wished to implore Nicholas to give everything to the Lord, to find true comfort and peace in Him.

 

Nicholas smiled as though he knew Athelstan's thoughts, but he did not complain.

 

For several years, he was part of the monastery but not one of the brothers. Most of the monks ignored him or their expressions hardened at his approach. Some of them told Athelstan that he would be dragged into Nicholas's sin by listening to him. But Nicholas and Athelstan did not discuss gods; they focused on the wolves beyond the walls.

 

Perhaps talking of Jocelyn, of the kin he had lost, perhaps that helped Nicholas. Athelstan thought that it did and so willingly listened.

 

Then he left the monastery to travel far and spread the message of God for the first time. He met people who closed their ears to such talk, but he and his brothers did not give up. Athelstan listened to languages unknown to him and learned one from a hermit who heard his talk of God and did not cast him out.

 

Once, Athelstan encountered a group of people who snarled and sniffed the air. His heart thumped loudly – which he now knew they could hear – but he nodded carefully and offered them a bag containing cuts of meat. A man with thick red hair snatched the bag away but looked at Athelstan with worrying consideration.

 

“I belong to God,” Athelstan said quickly, many of Nicholas's stories swimming through his head.

 

The man grunted. “You smell of wolf.”

 

“That pack lives no more.”

 

It was all Athelstan would say, he did not know if Nicholas wanted his survival known. The man seemed to accept that and moved on, nodding abrupt thanks for the food. Brother Stephen looked thunderous, but Athelstan signalled for him to keep silent – the wolves' hearing stretched far.

 

When they reached their lodgings for the night, Brother Stephen rounded on him. “You consort with sinners and murderers, Athelstan.”

 

“As did the Lord,” Athelstan said quietly. “I show them His compassion.”

 

“And they will tear your throat out after claiming peace and friendship.”

 

Athelstan stayed silent; Stephen had met werewolves before, a meeting which had ended badly. Athelstan did not begrudge him his opinion, but didn't God call them all to love the unloved? Athelstan could see perhaps a way ahead, a way that God had planned?

 

Nicholas didn't laugh at him when Athelstan ventured this opinion. “Whatever path brought me here, I'm glad of it. You are a credit to your god.”

 

Athelstan flushed and continued to learn from Nicholas, ensuring that such lessons did not infringe on his duties. He wrote the Lord's words with careful lavishness, wanting to show their beauty in every way. Nicholas was impressed when he saw the pages.

 

“Could you teach me letters?” he asked abruptly.

 

Athelstan paused, it was an unusual idea. What would Nicholas use the letters for? He had no kin to write to and he would not write of his beliefs, would he? That would break his word to Father Cuthbert.

 

Nicholas's eyes were filled with keen interest though as he gazed down at the ink and colours, so Athelstan consulted with Father Cuthbert and began letter lessons with Nicholas the next day. Nicholas helped him refine his knowledge of the languages he had encountered outside the monastery.

 

Eventually Nicholas could write his name. He penned Jocelyn's beside it.

 

*

 

It was a cold day when everything changed. Nicholas had been working in the kitchen since dawn, bringing in vegetables, humming quietly to himself. Most of the monks working there were ignoring him. He had been awake for many hours the previous night, standing out in front of the monastery, staring up at the large full moon.

 

“Wolves go wild under a full moon,” he had told Athelstan. “The change is stronger in them, to resist it at such times does terrible things.”

 

Athelstan had thought about the cruel yellow eyes from Stephen’s stories and had shivered.

 

Now, he was attending to his work, to his papers and ink, his thoughts considering what passages he could provide Nicholas with to copy. Would it break the agreement if Nicholas copied the Bible? But then, voices broke his concentration. They were loud voices, full of terror. Athelstan scrambled out of his room to discover their source.

 

Many of the brothers were scattered, fear wide on their faces. But Nicholas was calm as he made his way out to stand beside Athelstan, and only raised his eyebrows when the invading force rapidly eating its way from the sea to the monastery was described as demonic.

 

Athelstan ran back into the monastery with his brothers, eager to hide their holy treasures, to not give them over to heathens. His mind was crowded with worry, fear and disbelief – what had the Lord sent them now?

 

But as he ran, he heard Nicholas behind him sigh with a keen, hungry, anticipation “Wolves.”


	2. Wolves Past The Gate

The wolves came quickly and loudly, Athelstan could hear them roaring in the hallways. He was on his knees, his heart almost shuddering out of his chest, his hands pressed together in prayer, his mouth moving quickly.

 

_Oh, God, what have You done? What must I do? Must I die?_

 

Athelstan could hear howls now; these were wolves on a hunt. He remembered Nicholas talking about the glory and excitement of such a chase, of bloodied jaws and fresh kills, of bared flesh and community. Athelstan's hands shook as he grasped his Bible and hid himself behind an altar. All of his knowledge of wolves would be for nothing – these wolves wanted prey and glory. And the moon had so recently been full so they were unlikely to listen to reason.

 

He hunched in on himself, clutching his Bible close, repeating familiar comforting passages over and over again. Perhaps this terror would be over soon and he would then be with the Lord, perhaps the wolves would just take what they needed and leave without finding him. Perhaps…

 

A door smashed open and at least one wolf entered the room, it sounded as though he was on two legs. Athelstan closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart, tried to imagine that his scent didn’t exist. _Oh, God, please, make this quick…_

 

There was a growl, then several loud crashes, Athelstan saw a chair being thrown hard against a nearby wall and flinched. What were they looking for? Were they just destroying because they could, because they enjoyed it? Were these wolves likes some of the alphas that Nicholas had warned him about?

 

The altar was wrenched away and a clawed hand grasped Athelstan’s robes, pulling into plain sight. A muscular blonde man stared at him, spitting several words that…that Athelstan recognised. He had learned a great deal of that language.

 

As the man tugged Athelstan closer, Athelstan spoke in the same tongue. “Please, no…”

 

The man paused and leaned in to sniff Athelstan. Athelstan held himself very still and didn’t bare his neck. His heartbeat was fast and the man didn’t lessen his grip. His voice was rough and deep and his eyes were a brilliant blue and shone with a fierce fascinating intelligence. Sharp teeth flashed when he spoke, he stood as a man but the wolf was also very present. Athelstan swallowed.

 

“You speak our words,” the man stated, though it also sounded like a question.

 

Athelstan nodded quickly. “Yes, I was taught.”

 

The man looked at him and Athelstan tried not to stare back. The man looked savage, dressed crudely in leather and armed with all manner of weapons. His hair was long and matted and there were shapes inked onto his skull. Athelstan was not _admiring_ as such, but he couldn't stop staring at the wolf warrior, this figure from Nicholas’ stories.

 

“Athelstan!”

 

There was Nicholas, accompanied by a large dark-haired warrior who scowled and snarled, shoving Nicholas in the shoulder as he entered the room. Nicholas’s face broke into a smile and Athelstan managed a nod back. Nicholas was alive and whole, how many others were?

 

“I’m glad to see you well, my friend,” Nicholas told him in the wolf’s language.

 

The wolf who held Athelstan scented the air and focused intently on Nicholas. “You are of a pack.”

 

Nicholas bowed his head respectfully. “I was mated to a female alpha. Neighbouring wolves slaughtered them all.”

 

“And you survived.”

 

“I should have died there by her side, but she would not allow it.”

 

The man tilted his head. “And you stay here?”

 

“I looked for peace from my grief, but I have missed the company of wolves.”

 

Nicholas revealed his bite mark as he spoke which got intense attention from the strangers. The shorter one who was still grasping Athelstan close stared at Nicholas for a long moment, Nicholas held his gaze.

 

“You would mate again?”

 

“Perhaps one day.”

 

The man nodded towards Athelstan. “This one?”

 

“He is my pack now. The others are scared of wolves; they worship the Pale Christ and believe me a monster. There is food here and gold.”

 

The man smiled. “Then you join us, both of you.”

 

Nicholas nodded and growled when the taller man sniffed at him loudly. “I am not yours to claim, alpha.”

 

The man reached for his sword, snarling curses and anger, but Nicholas stood his ground and the man who held Athelstan waved the other off.

 

“For now, you are not claimed. But you will be on our land.”

 

Nicholas inclined his head and looked at Athelstan encouragingly. Athelstan’s stomach dropped, he was going with these wolves, where to? Would he be forced to mate with an alpha? Nicholas must have believed they would be safe, but he wished for wolf company, would he seek it despite grave danger?

 

Had he wished the brothers dead?

 

Athelstan was dragged from the room in a daze, only breaking free when he saw Father Cuthbert lying hurt. He could vaguely hear Nicholas explaining as Athelstan knelt at the friar’s side, clasping his hand, wishing and praying with all his heart for Father Cuthbert's face to stop greying.

 

“Father…”

 

Father Cuthbert touched his face. “Stay faithful, Athelstan.”

 

Athelstan was pulled to his feet before he could reply, Father Cuthbert’s hand falling lifelessly from his grasp. Grief howled inside of him.

 

“What do you speak?” the man demanded.

 

“Our language.”

 

Athelstan’s voice was dull and he did not talk again as he was dragged outside. His heart felt crushed and his prayers spare and unhappy. There were more of his brothers being herded down to the sand. Only Nicholas was not treated as a prisoner, nodding to each of the wolves and easily climbing into the boat that awaited them there. Rope was looped around Athelstan’s neck and he let Nicholas sit between him and the rest of the brothers. Nicholas was scent-marking him, he realised faintly.

 

Nicholas had said that Athelstan was his pack. Weren't any of the other brothers included in such a pack too? Wasn't Father Cuthbert?

 

Nicholas nudged him, and spoke in quiet fierce Latin. “They come from far lands to raid and claim. The one who found you leads them.”

 

Brother Bartholomew glared at Nicholas. “You brought them here. I saw you worshipping your false gods in the garden, you asked for this!”

 

Nicholas appeared unaffected. “To you, my gods are powerless. So how did I bring such destruction forth?”

 

The taller angry stranger glowered at them. “They plot against us.”

 

Nicholas shook his head. “The brothers do not trust me; they believe I summoned you by gods that they hate.”

 

The leader crouched down beside Athelstan, his breath was strong and his eyes sharp. Athelstan could only glance fleetingly at him, grief and pain weighing so heavily on him that he could barely speak. So many of his brothers were dead now, Lindisfarne had been gutted and he was being cast into a dangerous bloody world that he was still coming to understand.

 

“What is your name?”

 

Athelstan lifted his gaze. “Athelstan.”

 

The man repeated it and nodded, as though he liked the weight of the word on his tongue. He leaned closer, so that only Athelstan, and possibly Nicholas, could hear him. To anyone else, it looked as though he was threatening Athelstan. Athelstan felt too numb to be truly touched by such intimidation.

 

“I am Ragnar Lothbrook. What was that place?”

 

Athelstan closed his eyes briefly, his pain fresh at the question, pain that he could not imagine ever leaving him.“Lindisfarne. England.”

 

Ragnar's smile was full of sharp teeth as he tested the new word out. “England?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you know of us?”

 

“Werewolves? Nicholas told me stories.”

 

“He listened,” interjected Nicholas quietly. “The only one who did.”

 

The werewolf looked at Athelstan intently, as though he could see beneath Athelstan’s skin, then he slapped Athelstan hard on the shoulder. Athelstan dropped his gaze, focused once more on the ache that he carried. God was still with him, wasn’t He? Athelstan had to keep hold of his faith, no matter where he was or who he was surrounded by; Father Cuthbert wouldn’t want him to drop into despair.

 

It was a near-impossible path to take. Still, Athelstan listened as the werewolves talked – the leader was Ragnar and the angry taller man was his brother Rollo. Floki was the slender man with the painted face; he had made the boat. He seemed addled and intense, his expression sly and mocking whenever he looked towards the monks.

 

Athelstan prayed silently, the werewolves did not like hearing a language other than their own. Was this what God had been preparing Athelstan for? Athelstan had thought that he was being shaped for mission, that he was gaining a better understanding of werewolves so that he could truly show them God’s love and compassion and show his brothers that there was more to such creatures than just horror stories. Wasn't that why God had sent Nicholas to Lindisfarne?

 

Such ideas were all ashes now.

 

Nicholas told him to do exactly what Nicholas told him to, that he would not see Athelstan wrenched into anything he had no wish for.

 

“They will force you to mate,” Athelstan replied quietly.

 

Nicholas pressed fingers to his bite mark. “I have lived without wolves for long enough; perhaps my heart can take it.”

 

Athelstan’s numbness ebbed away as the boat neared its home. The grief was still present, but he was now bright with fear and too many stories. Everything could darken again, with blood and worse, but he would hold tight to God. God would bring him peace after death. There were people crowding the shore, shouting and waving.

 

Nicholas elbowed Athelstan sharply. “Do you think your god has plans for your death so soon? He equipped you for this.”

 

It was a sobering thought. Still there were splinters of anger in Athelstan's reply. “You don't regret my brothers' deaths.”

 

Nicholas's gaze was steady and unnervingly unblinking. “I don't.”


	3. Treasure Untold

 

 

It was so cold on the shore. Athelstan huddled close to Nicholas despite the frosty silence between them and was then pulled along by Ragnar, by the rope around his neck. Was he tied that way to remind him of how close to death he was? He didn’t need a reminder.

 

The rope hurt his skin and Athelstan found himself tripping as he walked, jostled by eager hungry people. How many of them were werewolves? Were the children here born human or wolf? Had they brought him here merely to die, for sport?

 

Nicholas walked a little behind Ragnar, respectful and quiet, his gaze steady as he looked around. He looked more at peace than Athelstan had ever seen him.

 

Before he could ask Nicholas any questions, he was pushed into a large hall. It was full of people and there was a man sat at the front on a raised chair – the pack’s leader? He did not look happy as Ragnar had the golden treasures of Lindisfarne displayed for the jubilant crowds and talked of how the monks could be sold as slaves and how rich the western shores were, waiting to be taken. Athelstan forced his gaze downwards; if he made himself small and insignificant, perhaps no one would notice him.

 

He could not convince his heartbeat to slow down. The wolves that surrounded him could hear it and smell his fear.

 

_Please make this quick, Lord. Please show me the way. What is Your will?_

 

The man, the jarl, told Ragnar that all of the treasure was his, by right as packleader. Ragnar bared his teeth and his men’s hackles went up, Ragnar protesting that he and Floki had paid for the boat. But the jarl was not to be moved and turned instead to Nicholas.

 

“You are to be claimed.”

 

Nicholas stepped forward, dipping his head respectfully but not baring his neck. “My Lord, I have been claimed and my heart is still hers, despite the blood spilled. But I would be another’s should my heart move.”

 

There were murmurings at Nicholas’s upright posture and careful words, at the fact that he did not drop to his knees. The jarl, Haraldson, seemed interested though, rather than outraged.

 

“Your pack was slaughtered?”

 

Nicholas nodded and told his story, of Jocelyn who had claimed him after winning the right, of the bite mark still vivid on his neck, of how he was kin to the wolves, of how a neighbouring pack had struck without mercy. Everyone listened quietly until the end.

 

Haraldson nodded towards the brothers. “What of these spoils?”

 

Nicholas’s gaze was dismissive until it alighted on Athelstan. “That one is my pack; the others are not my concern.”

 

Brother Stephen spat loudly towards Nicholas, earning himself a sharp slap across the face from a nearby wolf. It did not stop Stephen from shouting in Latin.

 

“Your demons will damn you, Nicholas! These monsters will tear you apart when their greed is too great!”

 

“I am not the one tied down, brother,” Nicholas replied with coldness, words that he then translated for those surrounding him before continuing. “They hate me, because I chose to live amongst wolves. They fear you, believing your gods false and your hunger unending. Only Athelstan listened with respect.”

 

There was more murmuring, and some loud lewd suggestions that made Athelstan blush. He was surprised to feel the weight of Ragnar’s hand pressing against the back of his neck. His heart thumped even faster but the hand did not grip him tightly and Athelstan found himself leaning into the warmth.

 

Haraldson told the raiding party that they could each claim one item of treasure. Ragnar bristled but after a show of consideration, merely took told of the rope around Athelstan’s neck, indicating his choice, to much laughter. Athelstan swallowed and made sure not to meet anyone’s gaze. At least he would be with someone he had already met. But who would Nicholas be chosen by? Several of the warriors wished to claim him but Nicholas shook his head.

 

“I would make my own home, until any fight for me.”

 

He locked eyes with Athelstan then and nodded, rubbing a hand down Athelstan’s arm, scent-marking him in front of everyone. Ragnar nodded at Nicholas and then Athelstan was pulled out of the hall. He caught a brief glimpse of his terrified contemptuous brothers, then he was being forced to walk away.

 

Who would claim his fellow monks? How would they cope with such attention? Athelstan bit his lip and kept his cries silent. God would hear him though, how would God answer?

 

Ragnar was silent as they walked, though he glanced back towards Athelstan several times. His expression was hard to fathom, though his teeth were sharp and his eyes piercing. His wolf was close to the surface; in fact it never seemed far away. Were all werewolves so consumed by the wildness? Did it indicate his hunger, his greed? But he had spared Athelstan’s life and he had claimed Athelstan, for no clear reason.

 

Athelstan wished that he knew more of Nicholas’s stories, or perhaps he had heard them all already. He didn’t feel prepared though. What could he do in this place, where the Lord was loathed and laughed at?

 

Athelstan looked upwards, at the endless blue sky, and tried to stay steady on his feet.

 

*

 

Ragnar’s home was a farm it seemed. Children watched Athelstan’s shaky progress behind Ragnar, who smiled and told tales of his great raid and the riches he had brought back for the earl. Athelstan tried not to stare when a golden-haired girl displayed a fanged smile.

 

Oh, God, he was surrounded by wolves. He would be claimed, he would…

 

“Your heart runs like a rabbit,” Ragnar commented.

 

Athelstan took in deep breaths. “This is a very different world.”

 

Ragnar made a considering noise and tugged on the rope, almost pulling Athelstan off his feet. Two children rushed up to Ragnar, a boy and a girl, both clearly pleased to see him. The boy sneered at Athelstan, and Athelstan noted how he tried to copy his father’s posture. A young alpha then? The girl was quieter and softer, touching Athelstan’s arm gently and smiling at him.

 

“Why is your hair like that?” she asked, touching his tonsil.

 

Athelstan was about to reply when a woman emerged from the farm building. She was sharp-featured and Ragnar’s expression was heated enough to caurse Athelstan to look away. Ragnar’s beta? No, she didn’t have a bite mark on her neck and the way they greeted each other, neither of them was submissive. Were they both alphas? A married pair of alphas? Athelstan frowned; Nicholas had never talked about such a possibility.

 

The woman, Lagertha, seemed unimpressed. “What good is he?”

 

Ragnar dropped his hand to Athelstan’s neck again, Athelstan’s shoulders relaxed and Lagertha’s eyebrow arched. She looked closely at Athelstan, who flushed. He had not spent a great deal of time with women, especially not women as forthright and beautiful as Lagertha.

 

Eventually, she called them all inside and Ragnar told stories of his adventures as Athelstan was instructed on how to help prepare the dinner. He was reminded briefly of the monastery kitchen, which silenced most of his other thoughts. Bjorn watched him with narrowed unimpressed eyes, while Gyda looked happy at his presence, scent-marking him by brushing close.

 

“He’s not baring his neck,” announced the boy, Bjorn, suddenly.

 

He had broken into talk of where Ragnar would lead raids to next, Athelstan trying not to appear too distressed at the talk of more monasteries. He glanced quickly at Bjorn and then looked away. Ragnar met his son’s gaze until Bjorn shifted in his seat and dropped his gaze.

 

Ragnar turned to Athelstan. “Nicholas told you?”

 

Athelstan nodded. “He said only to do so if I respect and truly wish to submit to the alpha.”

 

Ragnar leaned in close. “But if you do not do bare your neck to me before the jarl’s people, I will be challenged for you.”

 

Athelstan gulped. Of course if he, a mere human, did not show respect to the alpha who had claimed him, why would any werewolf believe that Ragnar was an alpha to be respected and feared? And who knew what alpha Athelstan might be claimed by then? Ragnar was intimidating, but Athelstan’s fear of him felt quieter when surrounded by Ragnar’s strange feral family who ate at a table and talked of murder and pillaging so easily.

_What must I do with these people, Father?_

 

Ragnar nodded at whatever he saw in Athelstan’s face and turned back to his son whose expression was still pinched. Athelstan ate in a daze, not tasting the food, the rope still looped around his throat. He felt as though he was teetering close to some great precipice. Where would he fall?

 

Lagertha showed him what she expected out of him – rinsing the dishes, feeding the fire – and told him that he would have to learn how to tend the farm and more. Athelstan nodded numbly and gained a yellow flash of her eyes.

 

“Wake up, priest.”

 

He nodded jerkily and Lagertha seemed satisfied. Athelstan wondered how his brothers were coping with their new frightening circumstances. He wondered where Nicholas had settled and how many alphas he was fending off. He appeared to be so grounded as a beta, and drew such strength from that and from his bite mark. Was that what Athelstan was now too? A beta?

 

Gyda, the girl, told him that she was a beta and seemed glad of his company. He was glad enough of that; she was the only one to welcome him so unconditionally so far.

 

He had always submitted to God, and to the authority of Father Cuthbert. Was this how he was to serve now, a lone Christian voice in the wildness? And for how long until some alpha’s greedy nature became uncontrollable? He tried to imagine Ragnar or Lagertha fighting for him. The thought caused him to close his eyes, his stomach rolling.

 

“Athelstan.”

 

He opened his eyes and Ragnar was kneeling next to a small wolf, a cub maybe. The cub looked at Athelstan with such disdain that he knew immediately it was Bjorn. The cub with brown fur was Gyda then, who Lagertha was allowing to close sharp jaws around her forearm. They almost looked like they were playing, but Lagertha shook her head and said something about defence and strength and Athelstan realised, they were learning too.

 

Ragnar was watching him, perhaps to see his reaction to the wolves. Athelstan had heard stories of many different wolf attacks and behaviours, but it was something else entirely to actually see a werewolf in wolf form, quick and energetic, Bjorn growling and Gyda yipping. If they wanted, they could tear out Athelstan’s throat.

 

He wondered what Ragnar and Lagertha looked like as wolves.

 

He didn’t attempt to stroke the animals; Nicholas had always said that as a human you had to wait for the wolves to approach you. You were inferior to them, in strength and power, they dictated any encounters. So he watched Ragnar and Lagertha and their children as they bounded inside and outside the holding. He saw how they praised their children’s progress and disciplined them for their mistakes, even in human form the parents were in charge. Bjorn snarled and barked but obeyed. It was play as well as lessons. Athelstan wondered how young they’d been when they’d first shifted.

 

Eventually, Ragnar pointed him towards a barely-screened area where he could sleep. Athelstan nodded his thanks and didn’t say anything when Ragnar tied the rope that still tethered Athelstan to a nearby post. Athelstan tried to make himself comfortable, he was inside at least and not lying on the hard floor.

 

_Is this a trial, O Lord? What must I do to prove myself to you? How would have me speak Your word here? How would You have me die?_

 

Such prayers rang through Athelstan’s head for many hours.

 

*

 

Ragnar and Lagertha loudly and physically celebrated their reunion that night, disturbing Athelstan’s dreams and causing him to curl up tight, mouthing prayers against the reactions of his body and mind until Ragnar disturbed that too.

 

Athelstan refused their invitation to join them in their bed, greatly aware that other alphas would have simply commanded his presence. He tried to claim sleep once more, deeply aware of every snarl, bite, and endearment. Images grew bright in his mind of Ragnar’s scarred chest and Lagertha’s enticing legs.

 

Athelstan prayed against that too, but the images, like the wolves themselves, followed their own path and smiled at him throughout the night.


	4. In The Beginning Was The Word

 

 

Dreams were harder to come by after that, Athelstan was worked hard. The cold ravaged his body as he helped outside with the soil and the animals. Bjorn was contemptuous, but Gyda smiled and showed Athelstan the best way to cope with such tasks. She began to teach him how to weave, which only gained him more of Bjorn's derision and caused Gyda to reveal that Bjorn didn't know how to weave at all.

 

Athelstan smiled faintly and found something like internal quietness as he worked at a loom. Was this what Nicholas had felt, when he had worked in the monastery's gardens?

 

He saw Gyda and Bjorn shift into their wolf forms, they didn’t appear to be in pain though their faces and bodies contorted dramatically, bones and skin twisting and changing shape. Athelstan stayed still, not wanting to provoke anything. Gyda trotted over to him, butting her head against his legs and rubbing her fur against his skin. He was oddly touched that she would scent-mark him so much and claim him as pack. He hesitantly rested a hand briefly on her head before she rushed off. Bjorn did not go near him, Athelstan was glad of that.

 

He was always aware of Ragnar's gaze hot on his back, alongside Lagertha's keen interest. He was aware of their frequent touches, of how often they clapped his shoulder and leaned in close enough to brush bodies, how Ragnar always gripped his neck, especially now that Athelstan was free of the rope noose. He was being scent-marked, he was being owned. He was equally aware of how this warmed his body, of how glad he was when his work gained him their approval. He still sought God, still sought answers, but he also sought out the warriors who had enslaved him, every movement between them layered with meaning.

 

Guilt and confusion stirred within him and he prayed fervently each night, especially when Ragnar and Lagertha were loud together, as though trying to pull him towards them. His mouth dried and his thoughts became too heated and yearning.

 

_Why do You throw me into the fires of temptations, Lord? What must I learn from this? What must I do?_

 

God stayed silent.

 

*

 

It was some weeks after their arrival that Nicholas appeared at the farm. Athelstan did not notice him at first as he was focused on pounding clothing clean and so it was only when he was carrying his heavy burden back to the holding that he recognised Nicholas's familiar strong figure. Something like gladness broke through Athelstan's chest and he smiled welcomingly.

 

“This life suits you, cub,” Nicholas told him, his dancing eyes sweeping over the clothing that Athelstan now wore, his old robes discarded on Ragnar's orders.

 

Athelstan's smile twisted. He didn't want to agree, though it was true that his body was stronger and more wearing now. His hands had gained calluses and his skin was browning. His tonsure had disappeared and his hair had lengthened. When he looked into the water, Athelstan the priest did not stare back. So who was he now? This person who talked with savage wolves about religion and farming, who was forced to learn how to defend himself and the farm, who found himself enjoying this strange family's company? Athelstan frequently asked God, but perhaps God spoke a different language now, because Athelstan was not close to understanding any answers that were being given.

 

His smile must have dropped because Nicholas raised his eyebrows, asking for an explanation. Athelstan sighed but was glad to speak in his mother tongue once more.

 

“I should not like it.”

 

“Because they took you? You were given to the monks, some would say acquired by them. Now you are taken by Norsemen. You are fulfilled? You find peace here? You are not beaten or mistreated?”

 

Athelstan shook his head slowly, all of Nicholas's words were true but they sat uneasily in Athelstan. He should try to escape, but how? Who would sail him home again? Home. His home was ashes now, even if he reached England again, where would he go? Another monastery, to warn them of the Norsemen who hungered for the Lord's treasure? How long before he was taken again, or gutted on the monastery floor, his blood truly running for Christ?

 

“Athelstan.” Nicholas was closer now, his expression kind but unyielding. “You cannot forever yearn for what is lost, it will not bring it close again. Doesn't your god tell you this?”

 

The Lord did urge His followers to embrace the present rather than live in the past. Before Athelstan could state this, Bjorn appeared, his face suspicious and hard.

 

“Who is this?”

 

“His name is Nicholas, he came here from England,” Athelstan supplied quickly.

 

Bjorn sniffed the air and eyed Nicholas's neck, where the bite mark could clearly be seen. “You are mated.”

 

“I was,” allowed Nicholas.

 

He was still telling the story of his previous pack when Gyda and Lagertha appeared. Nicholas inclined his head deeply to Lagertha, a gesture he made look so easy. He was so comfortable as a human in a werewolf pack. Athelstan was surprised at the jealousy he felt rearing up, because surely his feeling and place as an outsider was good – he was a Christian man, not a heathen or a wolf. But the jealousy was still there, as Nicholas introduced himself, not presuming that Lagertha needed help in carrying what she had bartered for. He offered to help at the farm that day.

 

“I miss my pack,” he explained, his hand nearing Athelstan but not touching yet.

 

Lagertha looked at him for a moment and then nodded, causing Nicholas's hand to rest on Athelstan's shoulder before travelling up to tussle through his hair. Athelstan smiled a little at such a familiar touch, he had not realised he had missed Nicholas so much until now.

 

The day passed quickly as Nicholas helped with the crops and fished for their supper. He sang songs with Gyda and admired her weaving. Lagertha watched him carefully but her expression was not angry and became less tight as the hours passed. Nicholas didn't look haunted or worried, though his sadness was still present, it was a veil rather than a shroud now. He knocked arms with Athelstan and smiled into the sun; Athelstan could not help but smile back.

 

_Thank you, Lord, for delivering peace to Nicholas. Thank you for putting him where he needed to be._

 

_Is it where I need to be too?_

 

Nicholas was still there when Ragnar returned, carrying a brace of birds. He did not look surprised at Nicholas' presence and exchanged nods with him. Nicholas helped Athelstan prepare the evening meal without needing to be prompted, Gyda and Lagertha plucking birds with them and unearthing leftover bread. It felt companionable, and yet that sliver of jealousy reared its ugly head again in Athelstan. Nicholas knew his place here; he knew what was expected of him and how to behave. He knew when to push against an alpha's orders; he knew how to _live_ in this land. And he enjoyed it.

 

Only, wasn't that what Athelstan was doing too?

 

Athelstan could feel Ragnar's eyes on him, so he shook himself from his contemplations and muttered vespers before eating. Nicholas spoke with Ragnar easily, revealing that he had found himself a small serviceable hut to live in, close to the Earl's longhouse.

 

“If I hide away, he will think I plan against him, or plan to run.”

 

Ragnar snorted. “Haraldson's thoughts are too fearful.”

 

“Then I shall strive not to make such a thing worse.”

 

Gyda wanted to know about Nicholas's mate, there was pain in his eyes at such a request but he spoke of Jocelyn, gladly he claimed. “For if I don't speak of her, how will she live still beside me?”

 

“She is in Valhalla now,” pointed out Bjorn.

 

“She is,” Nicholas smiled widely. “But I treasure the memory of her close to my heart. It would dishonour her to do otherwise.”

 

Bjorn frowned thoughtfully and Nicholas turned back to Gyda. “Her name was Jocelyn and she was as strong and as fine an alpha as your mother is. Her hair was red like the dying sun and she fought with blade and spear. She was the only one of her litter to survive into adulthood and her pelt was garnet and gold under the moonlight.”

 

Gyda looked eager to know more, as did Bjorn though he hid it better. Athelstan wondered how long it had been since either of them had heard new stories. Lagertha and Ragnar were looking at each other as though they were remembering their first meeting. Athelstan tried to concentrate on Nicholas, on words that he had heard before in Lindisfarne's nurtured garden. But he realised as he listened that in fact some of the story being told was actually unknown to him. With Athelstan, Nicholas had held back. Here among wolves, he was revealing more of himself.

 

“I was a thief, hungry and living off the land. I did not know I had stumbled onto a pack’s territory – wolf and human settlements do not often mix in England, humans know little of wolves but stories.”

 

“What stories are we?” asked Gyda entranced.

 

Nicholas loomed closer to her, his eyes bright with mischief. “You live in nightmares, like the trolls or dísir. And you are monstrous, to be feared and prayed against.”

 

Gyda giggled and her parents smiled at her happy reaction. Athelstan felt odd pride as he watched Nicholas’s ease with the girl, at how well he treated her. It was a better sensation than the jealousy.

 

“Jocelyn was the first wolf to follow my scent; she transformed from wolf to woman before me, scented my neck and then let no other wolf near me. Her packleader told me I had trespassed and that I was to stay. I thought I would be maimed or killed, but Jocelyn spent many hours with me and said that she would claim me if I desired it. Some of the other alphas had told me that they would claim me whether I liked the idea or not. There was a reckoning for me and Jocelyn was victorious.”

 

“She caught your scent,” Lagertha said quietly, a knowing smile on her face.

 

“I was honoured by it and drawn to her. I knew that no other in the pack would treat me in the same manner. Before the next full moon, she had made the claim.”

 

He indicated his bite which Gyda exclaimed over. Nicholas smiled at her. “You will be so claimed one day, little wolf, and you will be a good strong beta for your alpha, just as they will be strong for you.”

 

“The balance.”

 

“The balance.”

 

“Mother and Father don’t need a beta,” objected Bjorn, his posture speaking as loudly as his words.

 

Nicholas wore an amused knowing look, which was echoed by both Ragnar and Lagertha. “Every alpha needs a beta; your parents haven't found theirs yet.”

 

The skin on the back of Athelstan’s neck prickled and he was sure that another conversation was somehow silently occurring also, as Bjorn protested that his parents didn’t _need_ anybody else, a fact which Lagertha disputed. Bjorn continued to argue with his mother and Athelstan’s face flushed when he realised that Ragnar’s intent hungry gaze was fixed on him.

 

Talk turned to other things then and soon Bjorn demanded to know of the battle that had ended Nicholas’s small pack. Nicholas tensed and Athelstan raised a hand towards him without thought, wanting to ease Nicholas’s pain. His hand hovered in mid-air, unsure at this new development, but the need to comfort overwhelmed everything else and he touched Nicholas’s arm, a touch that Nicholas leaned into before he spoke.

 

He talked of how his pack had been surprised when the other neighbouring pack had suddenly appeared, dishonouring a treaty. He spoke of how much blood had been spilled, of how the packs had fought both in human and wolf form. Jocelyn had told him to stay safe, to fucking live well, that it would be a glorious death for her to defend him and her pack’s land.

 

Nicholas had reluctantly obeyed her and had survived. He hadn’t even been able to see her body afterwards, to lay her to rest. The conquering pack had burned all of the bodies without ceremony.

 

Gyda keened and pressed against Nicholas’s side, a comfort which he accepted silently. Bjorn didn’t ask any more questions.

 

*

 

After the children had gone to bed, Nicholas pulled open a bag and produced an oilskin-wrapped package for Athelstan.

 

“A gift from home,” was all Nicholas offered as an explanation.

 

Mystified, Athelstan unwrapped it to discover, to his amazement, a Bible, and it was work that he recognised too, it had clearly been handmade at Lindisfarne. He gaped and truly did not know what to say. Here were the Lord’s words, His teachings, something Athelstan desperately needed. Nicholas laughed softly and pressed a hand to Athelstan’s cheek.

 

“Use your god’s words, and Jocelyn’s also – live well.”

 

Nicholas slept in front of the fire without complaint. Athelstan stared at the Bible for a long time before going to sleep himself. He thanked God for such a boon, for sending Nicholas to him, for bringing him to this pack that provided needed warmth in such a cold land.

 

_Are they my pack now, Lord? If I am to survive, they need to be. Am I to survive? What is Your will?_

 

Ragnar and Lagertha made love that night; their noise interspersed with Athelstan murmuring aloud the beautifully-painted words on the pages cradled carefully in his hands. The combination settled his heart and drew him deep into restful sleep.


	5. Paved With Sharp Intentions

 

 

Nicholas helped prepare breakfast and feed the fire. He offered to work for food whenever the Lothbrooks needed extra hands. Ragnar sat down and spoke at length with Nicholas as work began around the farm. Ragnar was always eager for knowledge, a fact which marked him as different from other Norsemen – Ragnar always wanted to know more, to broaden his horizons, to plunder fresh shores.

 

But as Athelstan brought in more wood for the fire, he caught some of Nicholas’s words and realised that the man was telling Ragnar of England, of Northumberland, of where he should raid for treasure. Ragnar was making plans, Nicholas providing him with abundant answers, and Athelstan’s stomach was dropping. Nicholas was speaking of monasteries.

 

Athelstan dropped his bundle of wood, gaining Ragnar and Nicholas’ attention.

 

“You…” His voice was faint and he turned to Nicholas because he knew the foolishness of appealing to Ragnar. “You cannot lead them there.”

 

“They are not my brothers, neither are they yours,” Nicholas replied matter-of-factly. “Besides I thought your god would have you suffer for your sins?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then surely encountering such heathens, such monsters, will be suffering indeed.”

 

Athelstan could not construct words. He was used to relying on Nicholas, as a voice of wolf knowledge and almost a protector. But he forgot sometimes, too easily, that Nicholas had no love for the monasteries, that he loathed how wolves were viewed there.

 

Still Athelstan could not sit back silently “England was your home, how can you encourage its people slain?”

 

“England is dead to me.” Nicholas’s words were iron-hard and unforgiving, his gaze the same.

 

Ragnar cocked his head as Athelstan stared, a pit opening inside of him as he gathered up the wood. Nicholas had clearly hidden the true depths of his anger and sorrow while at Lindisfarne, here such things were open, powerful, and raw. Nicholas had no love left for his homeland, it might have brought him Jocelyn but it had taken her too. There was nothing left for him there, Athelstan could see that now. Still he stayed silent as he stacked the wood beside the fire.

 

Eventually, Ragnar and Nicholas’s words penetrated his ruminations. They chilled his skin; they were speaking of him and his God.

 

“…So Christians believe it is their calling to love and forgive,” Nicholas was concluding.

 

“So he will break words with you again, soon.”

 

“He will. I will watch him while you voyage for great glory.”

 

“With your words and his.”

 

Athelstan paused, _his_ words? How had his words…oh, his heart thudded hard. He often found himself answering Ragnar’s constant questions; he’d thought that it was part of Ragnar’s insatiable curiosity about the world. Ragnar had given him mead too and so Athelstan’s words had flowed even more. Truly, Ragnar had been gathering knowledge for raids. Athelstan had helped him; Ragnar would use his words as stones beneath his feet, to aid him in murder and theft.

 

Athelstan’s posture was stiff when Nicholas left the holding, his hand trailing across Athelstan’s back. Ragnar watched Athelstan curiously, always so curious, and did not explain or apologise.

 

Athelstan completed his chores and retreated to his Bible, repenting until Lagertha called for him, Ragnar’s eyes a brand upon his skin.

 

*

 

Bjorn was furious at being left behind but Lagertha and Ragnar were firm. They told Bjorn and Gyda to behave, to fight for the farm, to stay away from Haraldson and any who called themselves loyal to him. Lagertha told Athelstan she would tear out his lungs if he did not watch over her children properly and then smacked his shoulder sharply before drawing him in to rest his forehead against hers for a moment. Her breath smelled of bitter berries and he could not help leaning into her warmth. He would miss her touch, he realised surprised and then resigned.

 

He tried to ask them to take him with them, to leave him in England, but the words somehow could not make themselves known.

 

Ragnar repeated Lagertha’s gesture and then suddenly nosed at Athelstan’s neck, which made Athelstan gasp, his heartbeat thrumming fast. Ragnar smiled with teeth and then he and Lagertha were gone.

 

Nicholas arrived soon after and took Bjorn fishing. Bjorn had apparently warmed to the human beta, though he occasionally tried to order him around which Nicholas never responded to. Bjorn had stopped snarling and kicking when that happened and when in wolf form, he even allowed Nicholas to rest a hand on him.

 

Gyda was humming as she wove. She was happiest when she was busy and told Athelstan that she wanted to have something to show her parents when they returned. Athelstan nodded and tried to concentrate on his own loom.

 

Gyda looked at him worriedly. “You smell sad.”

 

Athelstan bit back a sigh and tried to smile, if he upset the children then Ragnar and Lagertha would surely find out. “I miss my home, Gyda, and my kin.”

 

Gyda nodded as though she understood. “I'll miss my home if I have to leave Kattegat to be with my mate, but I can always come back. You can too, when you mate.”

 

Athelstan felt his heart swoop painfully. “I…Gyda, I don’t think I-”

 

“You’re a beta,” she stated simply, perplexed at his stammering. “Don’t you want to mate?”

 

“I…I think your parents want me here to work for them. I...belong to them.”

 

Gyda beamed as though any problems had now been solved. “Yes, you do. They smell happier when you're here.”

 

Athelstan could not think through such an idea without breaking his loom so he stepped back and took a deep breath. He then stepped outside the hut in order to clear his head. Nicholas and Bjorn arrived with many fish to clean, Bjorn hurrying past, calling for Gyda to cross swords with him. Nicholas glanced at Athelstan.

 

“Heavy thoughts?”

 

Athelstan licked his lips and tried to think of other subjects to talk of while also trying to push past the frost that he now felt when faced with Nicholas.

 

“Do you know how the rest of the brothers fare in Kattegat? I could see them, when we next need to barter.”

 

Nicholas looked at him for a long moment, his voice unusually soft when he eventually spoke. “Your brothers are with your god, Athelstan.”

 

Athelstan stared at him in slow realisation and horror, the frost spreading further and hardening. “They…they can’t _all_ be gone, they... _”_

 

Nicholas touched his shoulder gently, then more firmly, anchoring him when Athelstan felt as though he should walk until water rose over his head.

 

“They were not prepared for such a life and many of the wolves here, they do not have great patience.”

 

Another pit was opening up inside of Athelstan. _Oh, Father, receive their souls, how glad I am that they are far from such pain and suffering now._

 

Nicholas squeezed his shoulder, a trailing touch that said he was there if Athelstan needed him. Athelstan didn't say a word to anybody for hours after that.

 

*

 

In fact, Athelstan kept very quiet while Ragnar and Lagertha were away. He tended the land and watched the children, he often checked to see if anyone was approaching the farm with destructive intentions. Nicholas watched him just as carefully. After the first night, Nicholas pushed his way past the screens and lay down beside Athelstan on his small narrow bed. Athelstan spluttered a protest, a question, but Nicholas would not be moved, he ran a hand comfortingly down Athelstan's back, then down his arm. The touch made something ache inside Athelstan, it made the frost shudder.

 

“Pack means you're not alone, Athelstan.”

 

He turned his back, so that they were touching, but it didn't feel intimate or dangerous, not like Ragnar and Lagertha's touches sometimes did. Instead it felt comforting; Nicholas was the only one left who'd known Lindisfarne. And somehow despite his distaste for that world, he had honoured Athelstan's love for it.

 

Athelstan pressed into the line of Nicholas's strong back. He slept fitfully, but always slid back into dreams whenever he woke and became aware of Nicholas's reassuring heat, shielding him from the doorway.

 

*

 

Athelstan missed Lagertha and Ragnar. It was a strange thought to comprehend, but the feeling was there, in the pit of his stomach. He missed Lagertha’s touch and Ragnar’s laughter; he missed how they circled their family, how he was included in that group.

 

He shouldn’t feel that way, not about people who strove to plunder and harm those who loved what Athelstan loved too. He should show them God’s compassion, but he shouldn’t _desire_ them, not to this depth. But his thoughts were crowded with thoughts of Lagertha’s throat and Ragnar’s arms and how they sounded when they made love.

 

He could not stop his thoughts. He could not stop _wanting_ …

 

Nicholas was unsurprised at his state.

 

“Of course you miss them. They’re pack.”

 

Athelstan shook his head; he could not be pack with the Lothbrooks. Yes, such a position would protect him here but it wouldn’t protect his eternal soul.

 

“You told me once that your god wished you to suffer, to pay for your sins. Doesn’t he also wish you happiness? Doesn’t he give you blessings too?”

 

Athelstan frowned, his thoughts churning. “The Lord sends trials to test us, to prove our worthiness…”

 

Nicholas pressed a hand to Athelstan’s wrist. He sounded gentler when he spoke again. “Athelstan, doesn’t your god bless you?”

 

The Lord did bless His people, Athelstan knew that, he had read about it and heard stories. He had considered himself blessed to have called Lindisfarne home, and more recently he had quietly thanked God for the blessing Nicholas had been, for how he had enabled Athelstan to find a way to live here.

 

But the Lothbrooks, could they be a blessing too? With Christian blood on their hands and their eyes so often intent and hungry on him? It was a thought that Athelstan had been shying away from for many weeks. He had thought he could ignore or push away how he felt, the _pull_ towards Lagertha and Ragnar.

 

The Bible was clear about the fates of those who ran from their troubles.

 

Athelstan sighed and tipped his head back. He didn’t tense when Gyda snuggled against his side, or when Bjorn knocked elbows with him of when Nicholas touched his shoulder. He accepted such touches as the others, the rest of the pack, did. Thinking about it, it seemed that pack was perhaps another word for what Athelstan had experienced at Lindisfarne - it was a family, it was loyalty and friendship. God encouraged such things, and had named such relationships as blessings to be both treasured and nurtured.

 

But He could not be blessing the way that Athelstan felt about Ragnar and Lagertha. He had brought Athelstan here, but surely the Lothbrooks were a temptation to be resisted? Surely...

 

_Doesn't your god bless you?_

 

Athelstan was unsettled until Bjorn shouted that Floki's ship had been sighted. Gyda rushed after him, both of them eager to see their parents. Athelstan was only a few steps behind; he was unable to deny that something in him was easing deeply at such news. It was an ease that only grew when Lagertha and Ragnar greeted him by scent-marking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get the last chapter up this weekend, fingers crossed. Work is kicking my arse at the moment :S Thanks for all the amazing comments and kudos :)


	6. Downpour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter contains an incident where a character suffers the beginnings of a physical and emotional assault. See end notes for more details.

 

 

Ragnar and Lagertha were full of stories, once again Jarl Haraldson had taken most of the treasure they had brought back with them. Rollo had been furious, Ragnar and Lagertha hadn't been pleased but they had taken a fine piece of gold each and had made sure that the gathering crowd knew of all they had accomplished. Haraldson could not prevent word from spreading and he knew it.

 

Ragnar sat beside Athelstan, an arm slung around his shoulders. Athelstan did not attempt to shrug him off, he was glad of Ragnar's presence, Lagertha's too. They both seemed pleased to see him, their eyes flashing gold when they glanced at him. There was still frost inside of Athelstan, the coldness of pain and confusion, but there was also the warmth of the wolves' fire. He could not help but welcome it and enjoy it, their touch and company. A blessing or a curse?

 

Nicholas stayed for a meal, joining in with stories of what had occurred while Ragnar and Lagertha had been absent. Ragnar nodded his thanks, a gesture Lagertha mirrored. They both scent-marked him casually, which Nicholas accepted, much to Athelstan's surprise. Nicholas smiled at Athelstan's expression and ruffled his hair.

 

“I will see you soon, brother.”

 

Athelstan stayed by the fire, beside Lagertha and Ragnar, until his eyes drooped and his head dropped and Ragnar roughly guided him to his narrow lonely bed. It seemed more isolated without Nicholas there. Athelstan sighed out something that could have been discontent as he lay down, catching sight of Ragnar's smile. To his surprise – and disappointment? - Ragnar and Lagertha did not invite him to join them in their bed. Their gazes lingered on him though and their love-making was especially loud, a declaration of their presence and everything that Athelstan had been missing. He still silently cursed how his body reacted to such sounds though and asked God _please, why this? Why now? What would You have me do? My desires are...is this Your will?_

 

Lagertha crooned as though she heard his silent prayers and Athelstan sighed with her when her pleasure crested.

 

*

 

For a short while, life continued on as before. Bjorn and Gyda both helped around the farm and were often taught how to wield both sword and shield. Athelstan watched and laboured, his body now used to the strain of such work. He also still sat at a loom and wove, Gyda chattering companionably beside him. When she rested her head against his shoulder, he did not complain.

 

Lagertha stood hip-to-hip with him as they plucked birds. She told him that he looked like a man now, his face acquiring hair. He looked more like one of them every day, a fact that Athelstan found did not disgust him. Should it? He was growing used to what he saw staring back at him in the flat water.

 

Ragnar touched him more than ever, slinging an arm around his waist to pull him close, his lips hovering near Athelstan's ear. Such touches made Athelstan's skin run hot and his heart tremble, but he did not disentangle himself. Ragnar was ensuring that Athelstan smelled like pack, like him and Lagertha. Athelstan did not want to smell of anyone else.

 

It was a strange thought, but scent-marking meant protection. He should not claimed by any other alphas. In his heart, in the night's silence, Athelstan could admit that he enjoyed such a feeling of belonging. Ragnar and Lagertha could probably smell that on him too. He not only enjoyed their affection, he was _thirsty_ for it.

 

Would God condemn that? Athelstan's thoughts were less sure every day.

 

Then, one morning he was talking with Nicholas close to the shoreline, a sparse moment allowed by Lagertha between chores. Athelstan wondered how he could voice his confusion, his desire. He was looking for answers and Nicholas was often clear-thinking. No matter what, he would listen to Athelstan and cause him to see things in a new way, sometimes a helpful one.

 

But before Athelstan had the chance to voice such thoughts, Knut appeared. Athelstan instinctively stilled, Knut was a tall brutish-looking man and he was Jarl Haraldson's half-brother. His expression was greedy and his posture domineering; this was an alpha who felt entitled. Athelstan willed his heart to calm down. Nicholas appeared steady but wary. Knut glanced at him dismissively.

 

“The jarl calls for you.”

 

Nicholas dropped a hand to Athelstan's shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. “Then I shall answer him. Athelstan.”

 

Before Athelstan could protest, Nicholas blinked deliberately and nodded respectfully at Knut as he walked away as though without a care. Athelstan swallowed and turned to begin his own walk back to the Lothbrook's farm, but Knut stopped him.

 

“You have not been claimed.”

 

He stepped close to Athelstan, roughly grasping his chin in order to gaze at his neck properly. Athelstan forced himself not to fight such a presumption, Knut had no right to touch him in a proprietorial manner but he was related to the jarl and was clearly an alpha who believed that his status granted him such rights. If Athelstan refused, perhaps the Lothbrooks would be punished.

 

Still, he did not bare his neck.

 

“It is my choice,” he replied, quietly, his eyes averted.

 

Knut snorted and yanked Athelstan closer, his strength great and his breath foul. Athelstan began struggling then, his terror white-hot and his prayers screaming silent and internal. _Oh, God, please, no. Please._

 

Knut did not appear to be one who would treat a beta well. Athelstan kicked and pushed but Knut held him tight, his teeth pointed and bared.

 

“The Lothbrooks have not claimed you, so you will be mine and will weigh Kattegat in the jarl's favour.”

 

So Athelstan was to be a weapon, a totem to show that Ragnar could not keep possession of a human beta, that he was not a strong enough alpha to claim a scared English priest. Athelstan strained to keep Knut from nearing his neck. God could not sanction this, he could not...

 

This could not be another trial, could it?

 

Athelstan kicked out again, his chest heaving with effort, his thoughts wild and desperate, his words constant aloud. “I belong to Ragnar Lothbrook, to Lagertha Lothbrook, I...”

 

Knut's teeth grazed the skin of his neck and Athelstan's heart was hammering loudly in his ears when suddenly, Knut grunted in surprise and pain. Athelstan felt small hands tug insistently at his hands as sharp claws sank into Knut's arm and Bjorn was shouting. Bjorn?

 

The boy was striking at Knut's body with his fists, his eyes flashing gold and his teeth sharp. “He's ours, not yours!”

 

Knut roared and backhanded Bjorn powerfully but loosened his grip on Athelstan and Gyda, who had been clawing at Knut's grip, tugging Athelstan away quickly. Her expression was fierce but she touched him gently and carefully, as though reassuring them both.

 

“Athelstan, are you...”

 

There was a snarl and two wolves broke through the nearby treeline to pounce on Knut. Athelstan closed his eyes, Knut's shouting was pained and angry and despite what he had done, Athelstan had no desire to see what became of him now. Athelstan himself was too shaken to move, to run in case the wolves went after him next. But Gyda was there, her arms around him, and if they were in danger, surely she would have urged him to move by now.

 

There was silence suddenly and then a wet warm tongue touched Athelstan's hand, startling him into opening his eyes again. A large wolf with grey fur and distinctive familiar blue eyes looked at him. Ragnar. Athelstan shakily smiled and sighed in great relief. He could see another wolf – no doubt Lagertha – tending to Bjorn. Ragnar nudged his head close to Athelstan's chest, Athelstan slowly rested a hand on the wolf's flank, he could feel Ragnar's heartbeat. He suddenly felt so tired.

 

“Athelstan.”

 

Lagertha had shifted out of her wolf form, Bjorn stood beside her, apparently not badly hurt at all. Athelstan tried to find words, but they had all escaped him. He numbly remembered to turn away when Lagertha began pulling on her clothing, collected by Gyda. Ragnar pressed closer and Athelstan was glad of it.

 

Bjorn spat on Knut's body. It broke the silence.

 

“Haraldson will see us trialed,” Lagertha noted, without much remorse.

 

“Knut attacked Athelstan!” protested Gyda.

 

“It is our word against a dead man's,” Lagertha reminded her. “A man who the jarl called family.”

 

Ragnar butted against Athelstan one more time, and then trotted away, his form shifting quickly from wolf to human.

 

“Gyda, go and tell Haraldson that Knut is dead, that he tried to claim Athelstan and we stopped him. They will keep you there, as a taunt to draw us there. Be sure to fight, but stay.”

 

Gyda repeated back her instructions, hugged Athelstan quickly and then ran off without another word. Lagertha stared at Ragnar.

 

“So we face it.”

 

“Before Haraldson can say we planned this. He will say worse if we hide the body.”

 

Lagertha nodded and offered a hand to Athelstan. Athelstan blinked at her and managed to clasp her hand, his whole body still shaking slightly as he was pulled to his feet. Lagertha looked at him carefully and then placed a hand to the nape of his neck. Athelstan swayed into her touch, gratefully. _Thank you, God. Thank you._

 

Ragnar was telling Bjorn that he had done a good thing. Athelstan cleared his throat and looked at Bjorn. “Thank you, Bjorn.”

 

Bjorn shrugged but accepted the compliments and gratitude. Athelstan could see pride in Bjorn’s expression – he had protected his pack, he had been a good alpha. Lagertha wrapped a hand around Athelstan’s wrist and led him back towards the farm. Athelstan followed her in a daze, his hand touching his neck several times, checking that he truly was unmated.

 

Once inside, Ragnar, still naked, wrapped his arms around Athelstan from behind, pulling the beta flush against his chest. Athelstan relaxed into Ragnar’s touch. Lagertha pressed against Athelstan’s front, leaving him surrounded by their scent, by their affection and fierce possessiveness.

 

“You are here, you are ours,” Lagertha told him, quiet and firm.

 

Athelstan could have protested, once he would have done, but now he felt raw and drained and he needed their touch desperately, in a way that did not surprise him. No matter what happened, he was linked to Lagertha and Ragnar and truly, he was not unhappy about that.

 

_Thank you, Lord, for ensuring that Ragnar found me behind that altar. Thank you, for both of them._

 

“You didn’t have to kill him,” he ventured at last.

 

“We did,” Ragnar’s voice was hot in Athelstan’s ear. “He would have marked you and taken you from us. He would have come back another time if he had failed today.”

 

Athelstan shuddered and the two alphas murmured soothing noises, leading him to their bed. Athelstan tried to protest but he was so tired and Ragnar was clearly unsettled by what had almost occurred so did not want to let Athelstan go. Lagertha seemed to be of the same mind and Athelstan couldn’t stop pressing into their touches, needing the reassurance, needing them.

 

They guided him into lying down, and then lay down on either side of him, both of them holding him close, their arms intertwined across him. Athelstan should have felt trapped and afraid, but instead he felt safe and secure. This was more than just pack.

 

Ragnar kissed his neck, Athelstan let out a small sound and Lagertha held him tighter. “He won’t have you, Athelstan.”

 

Athelstan glanced at them both and tried to stay awake but his body was exhausted and very quickly, he fell to slumber. It was a good restful sleep and when he woke, Ragnar was kissing his shoulder. He smiled when Athelstan glanced at him sleepily.

 

“Haraldson has called for our presence.”

 

Athelstan swallowed; there was more than a chance that he could lose Ragnar and Lagertha. He reached out and grasped Ragnar’s hand. Ragnar looked pleased and ran his free fingers over Athelstan’s, clearly revelling in the contact. Then his hand travelled to Athelstan’s neck, a clear declaration of what he wanted.

 

Athelstan flushed but his thoughts were full of how well he had rested once Ragnar and Lagertha had returned, of how good their constant affection felt, of how well he fitted here, with Bjorn and Gyda, and between Ragnar and Lagertha. It felt like a blessing.

 

A blessing.

 

_Is this what You called me to, Lord? Please, say that it is._

 

The fire first sparked by Ragnar and Lagertha's return from raiding was now rapidly growing inside Athelstan, it was burning away so much of what had held him back before. He locked eyes with Ragnar and very deliberately bared his neck. Ragnar’s eyes flashed gold and there was a throaty growl from the doorway – Lagertha had returned from whatever work had taken her outside. She was on the bed again quickly, running her tongue along Athelstan’s bare neck. Athelstan whimpered, the pleasure of being in their hands tempered by his ever-present fright but the pleasure was still so very strong.

 

“You would have this?” Lagertha’s teeth nipped at the skin of his neck. “You would have _us_?”

 

The way she phrased it made something melt inside of Athelstan. He would be theirs, but they would be his, and Lagertha had made sure that he knew it. Honestly, Athelstan could not imagine feeling such a way about anyone else. He didn’t want to trust so much of himself to any other alpha, and if he was claimed by the time they all faced Haraldson, perhaps it would aid their cause.

 

And he wanted them, needed them; the incident with Knut had vividly shown him how much.

 

But “I will not live without God.”

 

Ragnar raised his eyebrows “As we will not live without ours.”

 

Athelstan nodded to himself. He could not stop touching Ragnar and Lagertha, his skin colouring at his own feverish actions. He _needed_ them.

 

_How can this be a curse, O Lord? How? Surely, it cannot be. Surely, this is from You. How could it not be when it feels like such a gift?_

 

He bared his neck again, his heart beating fast. He trusted them, he trusted them not to turn him. Ragnar and Lagertha took their time, petting him and kissing him, their mouths eager and warm. Athelstan could feel himself relaxing by inches and then Ragnar huffed a warning and sank his teeth into the tender flesh of Athelstan’s throat. Athelstan arched into the sharp pleasure/pain, Lagertha pinning him to the bed, murmuring soothing words as Ragnar licked at the mark he had made. Athelstan ached all over and when he sighed, it was Lagertha’s turn, biting at the opposite side of Athelstan’s neck.

 

Athelstan gasped, his eyes wide, his cock hardening appallingly. But Ragnar chuckled and slid a hand into Athelstan’s breeches, his fingers stroking hot hard flesh.

 

“Everyone will know you are ours now,” he muttered, teeth grazing Athelstan’s earlobe. “They will _smell_ it.”

 

Athelstan’s hips snapped forward, very quickly he was reaching his climax. The pleasure of it almost drove him into unconsciousness, stealing his breath, his mind, and everything else. When he became fully aware again, Lagertha was tugging at his hair, Ragnar running a clawed hand across Athelstan’s waist. Athelstan felt sated, full, and settled in a very unexpected way.

 

Lagertha kissed him softly, with only a hint of teeth.

 

“Is it…is it always like that?” Athelstan wanted to know, his worries momentarily quieter in the aftermath of his experience.

 

Ragnar ran a teasing hand down Athelstan’s thigh. “Sometimes, it’s better.”

 

They pulled Athelstan to his feet, only allowing him the sparsest of washes before they all headed to Haraldson’s longhouse. Athelstan felt very self-conscious, so aware of the twin marks on his neck, one slightly higher than the other. Lagertha and Ragnar walked on either side of him, their shoulders frequently brushing against his. Athelstan prayed quietly, giving thanks and asking God for help. _Please don’t leave me here without them, please._

 

Inside the longhouse, Nicholas was stood before Haraldson and his beta Siggy. Gyda stood with Svein, her expression brightening when she saw her parents. Her delight was heightened when she looked at Athelstan and saw the marks on his neck. Ragnar kept a hand to Athelstan’s back, Athelstan kept his head bowed. He was in front of a crowd who would judge his actions, but he was with Ragnar and Lagertha and he was with God.

 

He listened as Nicholas told of how Knut had appeared, telling Nicholas of the jarl’s request for his presence.

 

“I left Athelstan there in good faith. I am told that he smells strongly of Ragnar and Lagertha. So I made sure to tell them that Knut was talking with Athelstan, it was their right to know as his alphas.”

 

“He was not their beta,” Haraldson interrupted. “We have heard many testimonies of this.”

 

Nicholas nodded. “Yes, but I believed that it was only a matter of time. There have been testimonies of this also.”

 

Athelstan could feel Haraldson look at him, but he did not look back. He stayed as still and unobtrusive as possible as Ragnar and Lagertha spoke of how they had smelled Athelstan’s distress and fear, and how they had found Knut attempting to bite a claim.

 

“We stopped him,” Lagertha concluded. “As any here would have, if their beta was treated in such a way.”

 

There were murmurings and Haraldson directed a question at Athelstan. “Knut tried to make a claim?”

 

Athelstan nodded and prayed for steady speech and that his heartbeat would tell the truth to all the listening wolves. “He pressed his teeth to my throat and said that as I was not bitten yet by Lagertha or Ragnar, he would do so.”

 

Athelstan would not be revealing that Knut had spoken the jarl’s name and Haraldson sat back, unhappy but unable to counter the truth presented to him, through words and senses. He ordered payment from the Lothbrooks for the death of his half-brother but released Gyda back to them and acknowledged the bites on Athelstan’s neck – he had been mated.

 

Nicholas drew close to Athelstan with a smile. “Congratulations, brother.”

 

Athelstan flushed but his eyes must have danced because Nicholas looked happy for him, his sadness ever-present but not suffocating him. Rollo was talking to Ragnar about another raid on England, Athelstan turned away, not wanting to hear such things. He knew that he couldn’t stop the raids, but perhaps if he asked, his fellow Christians would not be so frequently slaughtered.

 

Gyda hugged him excitedly. “I said you would always be theirs.”

 

Soon after that, Athelstan was led back to the Lothbrook’s farm and more specifically, to their bed. Ragnar kissed his way greedily down Athelstan’s body and paid great attention to his cock. Ragnar’s mouth was very skilled and kept Athelstan on the edge of pleasure for a long time. Lagertha sat astride the beta, her lips and hands distracting him until Athelstan was close to tears, begging for release, his body as taut as a bow.

 

Once such a release had been granted, he watched Lagertha move to straddle Ragnar, easing herself down onto his cock and riding him with a triumphant snarl, her eyes flashing, her fingers clawed. It sounded like victory and looked like a dream. Once Lagertha was spent, Ragnar took himself in hand and spilled his release over Athelstan’s chest, desiring a combination of all their scents.

 

Ragnar and Lagertha left bite marks in many places across Athelstan’s body. He found that he liked the soreness of them, the ache.

 

At one point, Bjorn asked them to be quiet, please! Didn’t they ever sleep?

 

Later, Athelstan awoke to see the moon high in the sky, not quite full but still beautiful and fascinating. Perhaps it had pushed Knut’s behaviour further than usual. Athelstan thanked God most sincerely and prayed for his brothers’ souls, for those living for God in England, for those who would no doubt soon suffer a visit from the Norsemen, for those who already had. For the frost still clinging inside of him beside the equally strong fire.

 

He pressed fingers to a bite mark high on his chest and heard Gyda snuffle in her sleep. He felt that pull towards Lagertha and Ragnar, that strange unknowable gift tinged with a curse. His survival and theirs, bound up together. Their constant close warmth and their pungent addictive scent.

 

He looked at the moon and whispered “Wolves.”

 

_-the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, Athelstan is nearly forcefully claimed by Knut. It's a physical act but is also indicated to be an emotional trauma too, it could almost certainly be viewed as akin to a sexual assault. Athelstan suffers the beginnings of such an attack but Knut is himself attacked by Athelstan's pack so the incident is not overly graphic though may be triggery for some people.
> 
> Thank you for reading this story and going on this journey with me. I don't think I'll ever stop loving the characters on this show :)


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